


City of the Elves

by saliache



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, M/M, Silverfisting, also Annatar is a terrible partner, and that's terrible, but of course, celebrimbor has a terrible idea about what constitutes romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6402268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short interconnected ficlets detailing the work and relationship of Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion, and Annatar, future Dark Lord</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Gaslighting in this chapter. Beware.

“He’s not good for you,” Narvi grumbled.

 Celebrimbor fiddled with the clasp of the necklace he was making. _In, out, in, out._ The hook-spring mechanism was one he had designed himself, and he studiously hooked it onto the chain of the necklace, carefully not looking at her.

 “Everyone can see it. Every time you meet him, you come away… drained. Like he’s taken away your joy. Your _spirit_ , Silverfist. He’s changed you, and not at all for the better.”

 Celebrimbor set the necklace down. Amber and tiger’s eye winked up at him; gold to match a Maia’s eyes. He finally gathered the courage to look at Narvi; she had abandoned her own project, still a series of half-finished equations and graphs, and was looking at him with concern, with the corners of her mouth folded down into the dark roughness of her beard.

 “He’s brilliant, _meldanya_ , and I don’t just mean in looks. He’s my one chance at making everything better – with his knowledge I can, I can make things _better_.”

 Narvi’s frown sharpened, her eyebrows dropping thunderously. “Make things _better_ how?” she asked hotly. “What can you do with him that you cannot do alone? What has he offered you that you cannot resist?”

 Celebrimbor dropped his eyes again, swallowing uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” he admitted, “but he remembers things Father never even bothered to teach me. And he’s kind.”

 Narvi laughed at that, a sharp unfriendly sound. “He is not _kind_ ,” she said. “He is like a _mithril_ vein in an unstable tunnel, and just as deadly. He is not worth the risk; do not let him make you into something you are not.”

 Celebrimbor returned to fiddling with his clasp. “He said I had potential,” he said, barely above a whisper. He could still feel the wild joy rushing through him at Annatar’s pronouncement. “That I was _worth_ something.”

 Narvi rapped his knuckles. “You have more than potential,” she scolded. “And you have always been worth something, no matter what others may say of you.”

 But Celebrimbor shook his head. “I’m not good enough,” he said tiredly. Annatar had looked at his prototype, and after a mere glance listed half a dozen flaws in the construction alone. “Grandfather wouldn’t have made such elementary mistakes, and neither would Father.”

 Narvi crossed her arms disdainfully. “Perhaps because Fëanor was never forced to rush a project to completion ahead of schedule, or ever bothered to show anyone his rough drafts. You can’t expect everything to be perfect on the first try.”

 Celebrimbor stared down at the clasp. To stabilize the catch further would add bulk to the mechanism and unbalance it, causing it to slide along the neck. Repositioning the hooked loop to make it easier to catch would make it uncomfortable to wear. And he could do nothing to mitigate the fact that it did nothing to help untwist a misclasped chain.

 “This design was flawed from the start,” he growled, tossing it aside.

 “There are always tradeoffs,” Narvi murmured, looking down at his notes. “You understood that once.”

 “Not always,” he said, upset, thinking about the graceful spires and airships of Valinor. “There was a time when the craftsmen of the Noldor understood how to… compensate.”

 “Perhaps they only made different compromises.”

 “I miss it,” Celebrimbor whispered. “It was… less flawed.”

 “And perhaps you are only romanticizing the past,” Narvi scolded.

 “It doesn’t mean I can’t try to make such a future,” he argued. With a sigh, he levered himself off the bench and retrieved the necklace. Perhaps if he abandoned the hook-loop and simply modified the clasp to hook onto a counterpart? “And it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try.”

 The door opened, silent on oiled hinges.

 “Arguing with yourself again, Tyelpë?” Annatar asked teasingly. “You know it’s a bad habit unbefitting the best of the Mírdain.”

 Celebrimbor glanced back at the desk, but it was empty but for faded notes written by a long-dead hand.

 “It’s nothing,” he lied. 


	2. Lessons

The statuette smashed against the wall with a sharp cracking sound. Celebrimbor edged his way around the laden desk and bent over the pieces; broken into half a dozen shards, it was easy to see where there had been stress lines he had missed during the carving.

“A poor job,” Annatar said calmly, holding out a dustpan and broom. “Clean it up, and try again.”

“But how did you know?” Celebrimbor exclaimed in frustration, snatching up the largest pieces with his hands. The stone was warm and jagged beneath his touch. “I checked the stone myself – there were no imperfections!”

“If you doubt me, perhaps I should take my considerable knowledge elsewhere,” Annatar murmured. “I hear Istyanis Narwen is in desperate need of a stonemasonry instructor. Try again, Tyelpë.”

Celebrimbor swept up the ruins of his latest piece and went back to fetch another chunk of marble. His failure weighed heavily on his mind; he had been so certain of his success. Never mind that. He would not fail this time. 

“Try again, Tyelpë.” Curufinwë looked disappointed in his son, as always.

Tyelpë stared at the polished rock in front of him and tried not to twitch. It remained sedately closed off to his thoughts. He stared harder; nothing happened, except he got a headache and black spots behind his eyes from holding his breath too long.

“I cannot do it,” he said finally, frustrated. “Father-”

“Do it,” Curufinwë scolded. “I saw you do it with those marbles you threw for those crows yesterday. If you cannot do it on command, you are not half the son I thought you were.”

Formenos was a lonely place for a young elf; Tyelpë liked the crows that sometimes flew down to perch on the battlements. The older elves ignored them, but sometimes he was able to sneak food or shiny rocks out of the hall and exchange them for stories. And such stories! The crows told him of the Trees that were the source of the weak light in this cold, remote fortress; they spoke of cities limned with pearls and seashells; there was a mountain, they said, the most special mountain of all, where the best and brightest of their kind dwelled amongst the eternal chime of bells. Tyelpë wanted to visit those places some day, and he always wanted to hear more, so he brought them trinkets.

But, of course, trinkets were not exactly easy to come by, especially for an elfling, but he’d always managed to find rocks that were shiny or colorful when polished up, if he tried hard enough. The first time he’d done that the crows had taken the stones and left without a word; they’d come back later, of course, but it had still hurt.

And when he’d gotten caught with a half-dozen of those rocks, Curufinwë had looked upon him with something approaching approval in his eyes.

Tyelpë thought of rocks, and of shininess, and the stories of the crows.

The concept was the same. Celebrimbor stared at the granite morosely. It was an uncomfortable stone, stolid and quiet and patchwork, and the little bits of other stones that made it up ground together uncomfortably. He knew that if he heated it enough, they would expand at different rates and shatter the matrix.

Heat…

The stone had felt warm in his hands.

“Oh, clever,” he laughed, shakily, disentangling himself from the stone. “So that is what you were trying to tell me.”

Annatar moved to stand behind him, hands resting heavily on his shoulders. “Go on,” the Maia said.

“The carving was fine,” he crowed, understanding. “It was merely my choice of stone that was incorrect. There was no flaw, other than the very flaw inherent in its matrix. You gave me a trick question!”

Annatar’s hands clenched painfully on his shoulders and Celebrimbor feared he had been wrong, but the Maia leaned in to envelop him in a warm, fierce hug. “Well done,” Annatar laughed lightly. “And so quickly! I think you shall become my best student in time, little one.”

Pride bloomed in Celebrimbor’s heart and mixed with the joy rising in the back of his throat. Curufin had never been so forthcoming with his praises…

“You really think so?” he asked softly, and was rewarded with another joyful hug.

“I know so,” Annatar replied.


	3. Governance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad is not happy.

“You cannot be serious,” Gil-galad said. His skin, normally Telerin-pale, was flushed, spots of color flaring high on his cheeks.

“We are entirely serious,” Celebrimbor responded, an odd weariness in his eyes. “The decision was discussed and agreed upon by the entirety of the Guilds of Eregion, with full support from the merchant-houses and even the local Ϸindar, in accordance with our chartered by-laws.”

“You cannot be serious,” Erestor echoed his king.

With a flourish, Daniel brought forth the declaration. Celebrimbor caught a glimpse of signatures, caught the heavy pull of wax seals and the lingering scent of holly, as Gil-galad took the parchment. His half-elven advisor leaned over, frowning slightly.

“It does appear to be in order,” the peredhel admitted, a pained look in his eyes. “Although I cannot see why you would-”

“Hush, Elrond,” Gil-galad murmured. “They mean no insult by this, Lord Celebrimbor least of all.”

Celebrimbor wished he could echo that sentiment in good faith. Someone behind him snickered quietly, and was hushed.

Gil-galad’s eyes scanned the parchment, then met his. “You understand this puts me in a difficult position,” the High King said. “Your… decision (“Seccession,” Erestor mouthed angrily.) has come at a bad time. There will be some who will take this as treason.” Treason from a House of traitors.

“Let them,” Celebrimbor said. “We know ourselves.”

We have chosen our own fate.


End file.
